Old Acquaintances and New Wounds
by E4flying
Summary: Wilkes come back to town, and tries to kidnap Peter. When Neal saves him at his own expense, he finds himself thrown into increasingly dangerous situations. Will Peter be able to take Wilkes down in time to save Neal's life? This is a Neal whump-centric story. Set somewhere late in season 2, spoilers for seasons 1-2. Story is long, but chapters are short.
1. Chapter 1

_I own nothing, although I really wish I did._

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><p>"Peter!" Neal's bright blue eyes were open wide, a look of sheer terror marring his typically passive expression.<p>

Peter saw the fear on his friend and partner's face, but wasn't sure why until he felt an arm tighten around his neck and a cloth was pushed over his nose and mouth. He smelled a sweet, sickly odor and his vision started going blurry around the edges. He pushed against the man's body behind him but his huge arm was around Peter's neck, and his struggling was futile. He reached towards his holster, trying to grab his gun, but he was too weak from the lack of air and the chloroform.

Peter started to black out when he felt, rather than saw, someone lunge past him and suddenly the arm around his throat was released and the rag taken off his mouth. He fell to the ground, with no one to hold him up. His breathing came in spurts, and he tried to focus on what was going on.

He heard grunts and cries, and saw two blurry figures fighting above him.

One of them was wearing what had, a minute before, been a very nice suit and a fedora. But the fedora had fallen off as he ran to save his friend, and the suit was already ruined, dotted with blood and ripped from the fight.

Neal was struggling, as Peter knew physical combat was not his thing. Neal seemed to be aware that Peter was directly behind him, and he was trying to dodge a punch while avoiding stepping back on Peter's immobile body.

The man he was fighting was a couple inches taller than Neal and twice as large, but thankfully slower than Neal. He was wearing a black ski mask over his face. But even as Neal ducked punches and swung at the man, it was clear that it was a hopeless fight. The man punched Neal squarely in the face, then grabbed his arm and yanked him up before he fell to the ground. Neal struggled in his grasp, but couldn't free himself. It was all he could do to raise his head and look at the small slits in the ski mask where the man's eyes were. "Who are you?" he asked.

"I work for an old friend of yours," the man responded in a deep voice that matched his stature.

"Who?" Neal gasped, fighting for air as the man gripped his throat tightly.

"I think you should come find out," he said.

Neal had barely registered the words when he was thrown into a van, his head hitting the door frame as he blacked out.


	2. Chapter 2

Peter was lying on the ground, his vision blurry, focusing on his breathing in an effort to stay conscious. He couldn't pass out on the streets of New York. He tried to get up, but his head felt too light and the street swam in front on him. He abandoned that idea, and reached into his jacket to pull out his phone.

He quickly found his contacts, scrolling down a bit. His vision was blurry still, but he made out 'Diana' and pressed her number to call her.

He put the phone to his ear, closing his eyes as he heard it ring. After two rings, someone picked up.

"Hey hon."

Peter frowned. Why did his wife have Diana's phone? "El? What are you doing- where are you?"

"I'm at work, honey. Is something wrong? You sound a little strange."

"I'm fine, hon. I have to go now, but I'll call you later, ok?" Peter said, knowing he had to call Diana and let her know about Neal.

"Ok. I love you, honey. Oh and Peter- I'm going to pick up some ingredients later for the chicken dish that Neal loves so much. Why don't you invite him over for dinner?"

"Neal..." Peter repeated, staring at the place where Neal had been fighting the mystery man just minutes before.

"Peter, I have to go, I have a client coming. Don't forget to ask Neal, ok? I love you, hon." She hung up.

Peter looked at his phone, seeing 'Call ended' on the display. The screen returned to his contact list, and he made sure to push 'Diana,' listed one line above 'Elizabeth.' He lifted the phone to his ear again, his already minimal strength leaving him as his head rested against the dirty New York sidewalk. At least there was no one around to see him like this- the mystery man had come out of nowhere as he and Neal had been walking to get a good cup of coffee before the day started. They had turned a corner behind a bar that was only really busy late at night, which was why no one was around. He wasn't far from the FBI building. He wondered if the mystery man knew that, if he knew he attacked a federal officer or if he was just a part of a random muggling.

"Boss? Can you hear me?" Diana was speaking in his ear, shaking him out of his thoughts.

"Yeah, Diana."

He could hear Diana breathe a small sigh of relief through the phone, and he wondered how long he hadn't responded.

"Diana, I need help. I'm on 14th, near that coffee shop I like. Hurry."

"Boss, what's going on? We just got an alert that Caffrey cut his anklet. I thought he's with you?"

"He was with me," Peter muttered. Louder, he said, "Just get down here. Come alone, and bring a bottle of water."

He heard the line click dead, and he forced himself to get up, staggering over to a wall to hold himself up. Shake it off, he thought to himself. It was just a little chloroform. Cowboy up. He needed to look well enough to avoid a trip to the hospital. Diana would insist on it if she found him on the ground, but he had to be in the office. He had to find Neal.

He was standing, though leaning slightly with one hand of the wall, when he heard Diana's shoes clacking on the sidewalk at a rather fast pace. He saw her turn the corner, her hand resting on her gun, when she saw him and visibly relaxed.

"What happened? Where's Caffrey?" she asked, handing Peter the bottle of water she'd taken from the small fridge in the office. She looked around, equally confused and curious, before noticing Neal's fedora on the ground along with a couple of drops of blood, skid marks on the street, and finally Peter leaning against the wall, guzzling the water. "Boss?"

Peter was almost finished with the bottle when he stopped drinking, and took a deep breath. "So much better," he mumbled.

"Peter?" Diana was clearly worried.

"Let's walk back to the office and I'll tell you what I know," Peter said.

What he knew, it turned out, was practically nothing. He was grabbed from behind by a guy in a ski mask. He was tall, taller than Peter, and had chloroform, so he must've been a professional. Neal had saved Peter, but he had been taken by the man into a silver van standing idly by, waiting, with unknown plates.

The surveillence tape Jones pulled up at the office only showed the street, so it didn't reveal much. All they could see on it was the van with the driver facing away from the camera and shrouded in shadow. Neal wasn't on the tape at all, and the whole van was only visible for a moment before it drove off. It had no license plates or identifiable marks.

When Peter appraised Hughes of the situation and sent forensics down to the area, they weren't able to find a lead from the tire tracks and the small amount of blood was Neal's so they couldn't run the DNA to figure out the mystery man's identity.

Peter took a few Advil, which cleared his head, and he recovered quickly from the chloroform incident with no lasting damage other than worried looks thrown his was by Diana.

6:00 rolled around and no progress had been made on finding Neal. Despite the entire White Collar division working on the case, they had no leads on the mystery man. They had no idea if he singled out Peter or Neal as a target, if he knew about Neal's anklet beforehand or had just found it after he took him, or if he was planning to make a ransom demand or not. Frankly, Peter didn't know who'd receive a ransom demand for Neal. He pushed the thought away, not wanting to think about how he was maybe the closest person to Neal but had let him get kidnapped right in front of him. He felt guilty enough as it was, with Neal's life in danger after his own life had just been saved by that very man.

Peter was exhausted, and still fuming from the talk he'd had with the Marshalls, who had been convinced Neal had run. He was ready to pour himself a cup of coffee and sit down to try to find a new lead, when Hughes walked into his office.

"Sir? Do you need something?" It was usually Peter who found himself in Hughes's office, not the other way around.

"It's late, Peter. Go home. Eat dinner, get a good night sleep, and come back in the morning to solve this. We'll find him. Everyone's working on it."

Peter wanted to say it wasn't everyone if he wasn't working. He wanted to say he was wide awake, and wouldn't be able to sleep anyway. He wanted to say his partner's life was in danger, which meant he couldn't leave. He wanted to say all of those things, but instead he nodded obediently at his boss, a man who'd grown as wise as he was tough over his long years as an agent, and went home.

When Peter opened the door to his house, a wonderful aroma filled the air. "Hey hon!" Elizabeth called from the kitchen. She walked over to the door, still wearing an apron, and kissed him gently on the lips. When they separated, she looked around, confused. "Where's Neal? I thought you told him I'm making his favorite chicken dinner."

Peter collapsed on the couch with his jacket still on, groaning inwardly. With all the chaos and uncertaintly at the office, he hadn't remembered to call El and tell her about Neal. She thought he'd had a normal day!

"Honey, is something wrong? Where is Neal, really?" Leave it to Elizabeth to instinctively know the problem.

"He... he was kidnapped today," Peter said. He didn't want to sugar coat it, but that had come out harsher than he'd meant it to. He saw Elizabeth's eyes widen as she sat down on the couth, exhaling roughly.

"We were walking to the coffee shop when I was jumped from behind. Neal started fighting him, but the man threw him in a van and drove off. Then I got the update that his anklet was cut."

Elizabeth held his hand, squeezing gently, her eyes glistening slightly. You'll find him," she whispered, "You always do."  
>"He saved my life, El. And then he disappeared."<p>

He didn't need to say he felt guilty; Elizabeth could hear it in his voice, see it in his posture, and his eyes. She knew they didn't have any leads on Neal, or Peter would still in be in the office working. Hughes must've ordered him to go home.

There was a sharp knocking at the door, startling Peter and Elizabeth. They both got up, Peter's hand resting on his holster, as they opened the door.

On the other side stood Neal, bruised and bloody, his eyes bloodshot, his suit torn, and his hands bound behind his back.

"Peter," he rasped. "Don't do anything." And then he collapsed through the door into Peter's arms.


	3. Chapter 3

Neal had woken up, unsure of where he was for a moment. He tried to hold his head, as he had a throbbing headache, when he found he arms were bound behind him with what felt like a zip-tie. Swallowing roughly, Neal realized what had happened, and started to assess his situation. He couldn't see anything, and he was gaggled with rags stuffed in his mouth, which was covered with a strip of duct tape to keep him from spitting them out. His breathing was labored, even when he breathed from his nose, so he figured the reason he couldn't see anything was due to a bag over his head. He also felt each of his legs zip-tied to the legs of the metal chair he was sitting on. It didn't look good.

Neal started twisting his wrists as much as possible, despite the pain it caused, in an effort to slip out of the zip-tie. But almost as soon as he started, he froze, hearing voices nearby.

"He came running at me. There was nothing else I could do." Neal vaguely recognized the voice as his kidnapper's, the man who had first tried to take Peter. He felt a surge of anger, but stayed completely still. He needed to hear the conversation- it could give him an advantage if they didn't know he was listening.

"You couldn't have knocked him out and taken the agent? You idiot! You've ruined the whole plan!"

Neal recognized _that_ voice without hesitation. It was Ryan Wilkes, his old partner, who had wanted him dead for a few years now. Last time he'd tried to kill Neal, Neal had survived out of a little ingenuity and a lot of luck, not to mention help from the FBI. That was the second time he'd escaped from Wilkes- he didn't quite want to push his luck and try a third time, but it didn't look like he'd have much of a choice to the contrary.

One thing didn't quite make sense. Why did he want Peter? His 'plan' clearly didn't sound like it involved Neal at all.

Neal heard the first man start to respond to Wilkes, but his argument didn't last very long before Neal heard a gunshot and the man's voice abruptly stopped. Something big fell to the ground with a dull thud.

Neal started working on the zip-ties around his hands again, hyperventilating from the lack of air, the gag, and what he'd just heard. He twisted his wrists around and around in circles, trying to loosen the zip-tie just enough to slip out of it, but they were too tight and he only managed to scratch up his wrists.

"What to we have here?" Wilkes's voice, right next to Neal's ear, sent chills down his spine. He felt Wilkes's hands grab his own and force them upwards, making his wrists burn painfully against the zip-ties. Wilkes held his hands there until his skin tore and he felt a little blood trickle off his wrists, and Neal could no longer hold in his cry of pain. It came out as a low moan with the gag, but Wilkes laughed cruelly and finally let go of his hands.

The hood was yanked off of Neal's head, and he saw Wilkes looking down at him, a smile spreading across his face. Neal glared at him, unable to do anything else.

"Neal Caffrey. High and mighty thief turned professional snitch. Tell me, Caffrey, how does it feel to be staring, oh so helplessly, at the man who is going to kill you?" He laughed quietly, as if he had just made an inside joke.

Suddenly he lunged in, grabbing and pinching Neal's nose, and whispered right next to his ear, "What does it feel like to die?" He held onto Neal's nose for another second, cutting off his airways, suffocating him. Neal squirmed and bucked, trying to get free, his lungs demanding oxygen and his head feeling quite weak.

Then, as suddenly as it had started, Wilkes let go and Neal took a huge, shuttering breath of air through his nose.

Wilkes stepped back and started pacing in front of Neal, talking as if he hadn't just almost strangled a man.

"It's really amazing, Caffrey, how many times you've managed to screw me over. The first time, we were partners. Not unlike you and your little fed friend."

Neal had regained his breath and resumed glaring at Wilkes again. He loathed him, and his hatred grew with every passing second, every word that came out of his mouth. The very idea that Wilkes and Peter were similar in any way was revolting.

"You screwed me over, ratting me out to the local police after I did what you didn't have the guts to do."

That man had a family! Neal wanted to scream.

"A shame, too. You would've gotten 5 million had you stuck around. Anyway, when I finally left that hellhole where they locked me up, of course I wanted another shot at you after you so nimbly avoided that first bullet."

Neal grimaced, remembering the bullet that flew right by him before he ducked into a department store and changed clothes, instantly becoming just another Italian pedestrian.

"So I kidnapped that girl, knowing you'd play the hero to try to save her. I should've just killed you right when I got you, but I needed some money to be able to fall back on, and I was on a short leash after prison. You know how that is." He smiled coldly. "So I had you steal the Gold Cards for me, and then I was going to kill you. Only you ruined that, too, by alerting your fed friends of your little predicament.

"But this time, it won't turn out with me in prison. See, I created this perfect plan. One that gets me rich, gets you dead, and leaves your precious Peter Burke in _a lot_ of pain. Only my... associate, who will no longer be a problem," another smile, "messed that up. He kidnapped you, instead of Burke. Which means I can't torture Burke to make you steal for me.

"Luckily, I'm a quick thinker. Why don't I torture you, I thought to myself, which will make me extremely happy as it is. Then I'll set you free, and you can run to Burke-y, who will of course come chasing me. And then I'll just snatch him up, and use him to make you do as I say. I've found you're very pliable when there are other people's lives at stake. Of course, if you don't follow my orders, you'll know exactly what will happen to Burke, as I'll do to him the same thing I'm about to do to you.

"Oh, and so you know, there's no way your feds will find me. Not now, not later, not ever. I've got hundreds of aliases prepared, warehouses all over the country and when you've given me what I want, I'll be able to dress myself in money for all I'll have.

"I'm prepared. This one is going my way."

Wilkes walked around behind Neal, who felt a hand on his head, and then his head was yanked back harshly by his hair.

"So, Caffrey," he whispered in Neal's ear. "Are you ready for some fun?"


	4. Chapter 4

5 hours later, a semi-conscious Neal was lifted into a van by a couple of Wilkes's men. His hands were bound behind him again with zip-ties, but he didn't have the strength to try anything bold even if they weren't.

He felt something large being put next to him, the thud on the van's floor jolting him slightly, but he didn't even wonder what it was. His eyes started to close, and he started drifting into blessed unconsciousness. But before he was out, Wilkes slapped him hard across the face, jolting him awake.

"Stay conscious, Caffrey," he said. "We're going to make a stop to dump my friend here in the lake." He patted the large object next to Neal, which Neal finally realized was the body of the man who'd kidnapped him. "If you fall asleep, what's to stop us from dumping you in with him?"

Neal wasn't gagged anymore, but he was too tired and in too much pain to respond. He concentrated all his energy on keeping his eyes open, which in and of itself was not easy to do.

At one point Neal felt the van stop and the man was lifted out and away. Neal saw them tie him firmly to a large weight before he was dragged out of view. Neal felt bile rise to his throat, but he swallowed roughly, remembering what had happened earlier when he threw up.

The van started again, and Neal realized he didn't know where they were taking him. Not that he'd have a say in the matter.

After some time, Wilkes kicked him hard in the stomach. Neal groaned and Wilkes put his face right in front of Neal's, making Neal's view of Wilkes blurry and all too large. "Listen, Caffrey. No hospital for you. They'll give you pain meds that are too good for you, and you don't deserve that relief. And remember, the only way to try to keep Peter safe is to not let him chase me. And I don't think you want me giving him the same treatment I gave you. Got it? No hospitals, no FBI." He pressed an object into Neal's hands, which were still behind his back. "We'll be in touch."

The van stopped, and Neal was thrown out. He staggered and fell onto the sidewalk, landing hard on his shoulder. Grunting, he pushed himself up slowly, a difficult task considering his injuries and that his hands were still behind his back. He heard the van drive away, and some time later, he was able to stand up and walk, almost drunkenly, forward. It was then that he realized with surprise where he was: Wilkes had dropped him off right in front of the Burke's home.

Neal stumbled up to the door, still fighting the welcoming arms of unconsciousness. He kicked the door, being unable to knock. He could only hope that Elizabeth wasn't home- she didn't need to see the sorry state he was in.

The door finally opened, and he saw Peter's face, a calm coming over him that he hadn't felt since seeing an unknown man's arm around Peter's neck.

"Peter."

Suddenly Neal remembered Wilkes's message: no hospital, no FBI. And even in his half-conscious state, he knew that of course the first thing Peter would do would be call the FBI and get him to a hospital. He had to stop him from doing that, he had to protect him.

But he felt himself drifting, the calm bringing the soothing blanket of unconsiousness around him. All he managed to get out was, "Don't do anything," then he passed out.


	5. Chapter 5

Peter caught his friend before he hit the ground. "Neal?" There was no response; he was out cold. "El, move the pillows off the couch." Peter half-carried, half-dragged his partner to the couch and set him down. Elizabeth ran upstairs to grab every first-aid material they had, her apron still on. Peter grabbed a pair of scissors from the kitchen and cup the zip-tie around Neal's wrists, careful not to cut his skin. His wrists were covered in dry, sticky blood, and the parts that weren't bloody were rubbed raw. Zip-ties didn't cause that kind of damage- no, if Peter had to guess, he'd think Neal was hung from his wrists with a rope. He pushed that thought away, not wanting to picture his friend in that situation.

When Peter gently moved Neal's hands to rest in front of his body, he noticed a cell phone clutched tightly in his right hand. He pried it from Neal's figers and placed it next to him on the table.

As Peter waited for his wife to return, he thought about what Neal had said. _Don't do anything._ Don't do _what_, exactly? Peter was itching to call Diana or Jones, or even Hughes, to figure out who had taken Neal and put a team in place to hunt that person down immediately. But he refrained from doing so, fearing Neal's cryptic warning. But then again, could he trust Neal's word right now? After all, he was almost unconscious when he said it. But Peter knew the answer to that. Even when Neal was drugged, he still spoke with a clear head. Peter just had to trust that although Neal's body was exhausted and damaged, his head was as brilliant as ever.

"Hon." Elizabeth had returned with all the supplies, which she dumped on the table before placing a pillow gently under Neal's head. She turned to Peter, a look on her face that shown with equal parts horror and pity. Then she looked back at Neal, brushing a stray lock of hair out of his face, before turning her attention to his body.

Elizabeth and Peter carefully eased off Neal's jacet and placed it off to the side, where it lay covered in rips and blood and a little vomit, by the looks of it. Neal had lost his tie at some point, so they went straight to his shirt, needing to see what kind of injuries he had. Elizabeth unbuttoned it, gasping audibly at what she saw underneath.

Neal's chest looked more like a map of the world than a human body. There were bruises forming in splotches all over, espesially concentratd over his ribcage, and a few of his ribs looked broken. Accompanying the bruises were lashes and singe marks, probably applied by a belt and a taser, Peter thought with a shutter.

Elizabeth turned her head away from Neal's chest only to lay eyes on his bloody wrists, then she turned to Peter, horrified.

Peter could only nod dejectedly, offering an arm around Elizabeth's waist as the only form of comfort he could provide.

Elizabeth's eyes were wet as she stared down at the unconscious con. "We have to get him to a hospital, Peter. We can't do much for him here."

Peter nodded. He wanted Neal to wake up, to tell him what happened so Peter could hunt someone down and put him behind bars, preferably for life. But he knew when Neal awoke he would be in a lot of pain, so he resisted the urge to shake him awake.

Elizabeth squeezed Peter's hand, then went into the kithen to grab the phone and call for an ambulance. But before she could even pick up the phone, a high pitched alarm rang, making her wince and cover her ears, and the smell of something burning filled the house.

"I forgot to take the chicken out of the oven!" Elizabeth cried. She quickly removed the tray and threw its burned contents in the trash, while Peter opened a window to circulate the air. After two minutes, the alarm finally stopped, and they could hear again.

"Peter?" The alarm had woken Neal up. "Peter, are you ok?"

Peter and Elizabeth came to Neal's side, Elizabeth sitting on the edge of the table and holding Neal's hand gently. But Neal only had eyes for Peter.

"You didn't do anything, did you?" he asked, looking very concerned.

"Didn't do _what_, Neal?" Peter asked, with a touch of impatience that was really unfair, as he was getting mad at the person who was tortured after saving Peter's life.

"Call the FBI, or Diana," Neal answered Peter's question, as if it were obvious.

"No, I didn't call her yet," Peter said, let his anger drop as he was really just confused about the whole situation. "But why shouldn't I? You turned up on our doorstep, Neal, beaten half to death. Tell why I shouldn't notify the FBI?"

"Because then he'll hurt you," Neal said in a small voice.

"Then who will hurt me, Neal?"

Neal shuddered slightly, his eyes wide with fear. Elizabeth saw this and squeezed his hand gently. "We're going to get you to a hospital, Neal, don't worry."

At this, Neal sat up straight, wincing from the pain it caused him. "No! No hospital!"

Peter had had enough. "Neal. You're really hurt. You need to go to the hospital, you need to be treated. And you were kidnapped today, your anklet was cut. I need to call the bureau to tell them you're safe, and we need to know who did this to you so they can be put behind bars."

This only seemed to agitate Neal even more. He stared right in front of him, not meeting Peter's eyes but looking at some invisible point in the distance. "No hospital, no FBI," he said. "No hospital, no FBI."

Peter turned to his wife, his eyes pleading. Elizabeth looked at Neal, who was rocking back and forth slightly on the couch reciting, "No hospital, no FBI."

"Neal, honey?" she said. Neal stopped rocking and speaking, looking straight at her for the first time that night. Her benevolent presence seemed to calm him, and he snapped back into his normal, polished self.

"Elizabeth," he said. "I'm sorry. That you have to see me like this." He looked down at his injured body, frowning slightly. Then he looked back at her. "And I promise I'll protect Peter. I won't let him take Peter away from you."

Elizabeth looked slightly confused, but she wasn't an FBI agent's wife for nothing. "Who is trying to take Peter?"

Neal looked down at his feet, avoiding both of their faces. Then he whispered, "Wilkes."

"Neal, I have to call the FBI," Peter said. "He's out there somewhere, we have to-"

"No! Peter, don't you understand?" Neal looked up at Peter, clear blue eyes meeting dark brown ones with surprising intensity.

Softly, Peter asked, "Neal, what happened?"

Neal glanced at Elizabeth then back at Peter. Peter got the message. "El, can you grab some pain meds for Neal upstairs?"

She nodded and went upstairs to give them some time alone.

When she was gone, Peter looked back at Neal, his eyes flitting to the marks on his chest then back again to his face.

Neal took a deep, shuttering breath, wincing at how it rattled his ribs, then started talking. "The man who kidnapped me, he was really suppposed to take you. Wilkes was going to hurt you to get me to steal things for him. But when I attacked that man, and he put me in the van instead of you, Wilkes got mad. He shot the man." Here Neal paused, swallowing hard. Peter was reminded of Neal's feelings about guns and dead bodies. He felt he should say something, but then Neal continued. "Wilkes adapted his plan. He hurt me instead, then let me go, saying he'd be in touch with what I have to steal." Neal glanced at the burner phone resting on the table. "He said I can't go to a hospital, and that the FBI cannot know about him, or investigate him in any way. If I do something he doesn't like, he said he'll take you. He knows you'll want to come after him, he said you'd walk right into a trap. And then I'd know what he's doing to you, because it's what he did to me." Then Neal added, almost as an afterthought, "When he's satisfied, he'll kill me."

"He can't get away with this," Peter said. "I'm right here, so he has no leverage right now."

"Peter, Wilkes is smart. He thought ahead, planned this out. He has plenty of aliases, warehouses all over. Everything we can do, he's thought through already."

"We'll figure something out," Peter said.

Neal nodded, mainly for Peter's benefit. He glanced down at his chest again, wanting to cover it up. He had just told Peter that he could get the same treatment, and he felt guilty for making Peter see that fact so harshly in front of him.

Neal lay back down on the couch, moaning softly. In his earlier panic to make sure Peter hadn't done anything that would put him in jeopardy, he hadn't really paid attention to the pain. But it was coming on, full force, and Neal lay his head back on a pillow and tried, unsuccessfully, to push it away.

Elizabeth came back downstairs, carrying a bottle of Advil. "You tired?" she asked Neal, seeing him lying down again on the couch.

He nodded slightly, accepting the pills Elizabeth handed him.

Peter and Elizabeth dressed Neal's wounds as best as they could with what they had. Neal's face contorted with pain when they wrapped his ribs, but he tried to play it off as best as he could with his practiced conman smile.

Peter gave him a pair of pyjamas to wear, and Neal slipped on the shirt. It was long-sleeved, and Peter was glad to see it covered the bandages on his wrists.

When he was treated as best as the Burkes could do for him, he started to drift off, but first he grabbed Peter's arm. "Don't leave the house," Neal told him. "Neither of you. Not until we figure out what to do."

Peter nodded, and Neal relaxed, easing back against the pillow and into a deep sleep.


	6. Chapter 6

Neal awoke to a faint buzzing. He blinked, and looked around, noticing he was lying on the Burke's couch. He was confused for a moment, until the events of the previous day rushed back to him.

The buzzing continued, and Neal saw it was coming from the burner phone that Wilkes had given him. It was lying on the table, buzzing in a circle as it vibrated.

Neal reached to pick it up. He tried to inject confidence in his voice as he said, "Wilkes. What do you want?"

"No hello, how are you?" Wilkes responded. "We went through a lot together yesterday, I really thought we found some mutual ground." He laughed, a low gutteral sound that made Neal's chest pulse with pain. "I'm calling with your first assignment, Caffrey."

"First?" interrupted Neal. "No. I'll do one thing, and that's all."

"Oh, you'll do everything I ask," Wilkes said. "Or Burke will find himself in a world of pain. Your assignment is this: The Feinburg Art Museum has an exhibit that's prominantly featuring a small gold statue that was found in King Tut's tomb. It's called-"

"The Boy King, yeah I know," Neal said.

"Good. I want it."

"That one in particular?" Neal asked. "I know there's a nice Manet that's worth more than-"

"Shut it, Caffrey. I want The Boy King, nothing else. You have 72 hours to get it for me. I'll be in touch with the drop off point later."

"Wilkes-" Neal started to argue that 72 hours wasn't enough time, but he heard a click that Wilkes had hung up.

Neal put the phone down on the table, and ran his fingers through his hair. It was dirty and ruffled, as was the rest of Neal.

He noticed the clock on the wall said it was just past 5 in the morning. He stood up, groaning at the pain. As quietly as he could, he walked upstairs to where he knew the guest room was. He limped slightly, holding onto the railing with a firm grip and taking slow shallow breaths to try to control the pain.

Neal walked into the spare room, opening the closet and seeing with delight that the spare outfit he had left there once was still hanging up. He grabbed it and headed into the bathroom.

The shower was more painful than he cared to admit. The lashes along his upper chest, shoulders, and back, inflicted mostly by a belt and at one point a knife, stung under the warm water. He cleaned his wrists from the dried blood, wincing when anything touched the scars that he knew would last. The muscles in his arms resisted being held above his head to wash his hair, as they had remained in that position for so long the day before.

But Neal emerged from the shower feeling clean and refreshed, with an idea forming for how to deal with Wilkes and his desired object.

He rewrapped his ribs and wrists, but left the other injuries alone to heal. Luckily, they weren't too deep, but that they stilled throbbed some. Wilkes hadn't done any lasting damage- Neal was still necessary to his plan, and he didn't need him too hurt to do a job. Not yet, at least.

He got dressed in a dark pair of pants and a dark green turtleneck. Before going downstairs, he checked in the mirror and was relieved to see that it covered the bandages on his wrists and the ones over his ribs didn't stick out much. All anyone could see of his injuries was a split lip given to him by the man who kidnapped him, which wasn't bad at all.

He went downstairs, the clock showing it was nearing 6 o'clock. Neal pocketed the burner phone, then headed into the kitchen to make breakfast for Elizabeth and Peter. His movements were still stiff, but he no longer walked robotically.

He had just scrambled some eggs when he heard footsteps behind him. A bleary-eyed Peter Burke, clearly just having woken up, came down the stairs.

"Neal," he said, although it sounded more like a question.

"Good morning, Peter," Neal said, flashing that huge smile that could lead sailors home at night.

"How are you feeling?" Peter asked, awkwardly.

"Better than ever," Neal replied cheerfully, but his hunched over posture, different from his normal ramrod stance showed his weakness. Broken ribs were not to be laughed at, and it would take Neal some time to fully recover.

"Why the early start to the morning?" Peter asked, pouring three glasses of orange juice.

Neal set plates down on the table, saying nonchalantely, "Got a phone call."

Peter's eyes widened, but he didn't get a chance to respond as Elizabeth came down the stairs.

"What are you boys up to?" she asked. "Oooh, Neal, this smells delicious."

The three of them sat down at the kitchen table, and there was silence for a moment as they enjoyed their food.

"So, Elizabeth," Neal said, breaking the silence. "What's going on at Burke Premier Events today?"

Elizabeth told them about a particularly picky client she was dealing with, entertaining them with a story of how she had demanded two life-size ice sculptures of her and her fiance before Elizabeth reminded her that the event would be outdoors on the beach in the summer in 90 degree heat.

When they had all eaten their share and laughed plently, Neal hiding his pain behind his practiced conman exterior, Elizabeth excused herself to do the dishes, leaving Neal and Peter alone.

"Wilkes called?" Peter asked, the moment she was out of earshot.

"Yeah," Neal responded. He sat down heavily on the couch, slouched over slightly. "Gave me 72 hours to steal The Boy King, a golden statue that's in the Feinburg right now."

Peter exhaled. "That's not a lot of time to come up with a plan."

"No, it's not," Neal agreed. "But I'll make it work.

The two men's conversation paused when Elizabeth annouced she was leaving for work. Peter reminded her to call him immediately if she saw anything suspicious. She kissed Peter, rubbed Satchmo, who had just come downstairs after a night beside the Burke's bed, and left.

Peter turned back to Neal. "It's outside of your radius."

Neal smiled. "I don't have a radius." He held up his pants leg as proof.

"Not now," Peter said, "but you'll get a new one when we get to the office today."

"I'm not going to the office today," Neal said. "It's the only way this'll work. No, listen," he said, seeing the expression on Peter's face. "Spread the word that I ran. Tell everyone we had a falling out or something. We argued, I knocked you to the ground, cut the anklet, and ran. That'll buy me time to steal the statue, and you can 'look' for me in the meantime."

"Neal, I told everyone you were kidnapped. I even managed to convice the Marshalls. There's a surveillance tape, your blood was on the sidewalk-"

"Then tell them we fought. You hit me, I bled a bit, then pushed you to the ground. You don't remember the details- you made up a story to save my reputation even though I betrayed you. And the surveillence tape- does it show the sidewalk? Because if it doesn't, just tell them I had an accomplice in the van waiting to pick me up. Tell them anything, Peter. Just buy me time to get the statue and Mozzie will do some digging on Wilkes's hideouts. It's the only way, Peter."

"Neal, I don't like this. Lying, especially to my team... Why can't we just keep you in the office guarded while we use the full force of the FBI to come down on Wilkes?"

"Peter, Wilkes said no FBI."

"I know Neal, I'm just saying-"

"Peter, I'm trying to protect you, can't you see that? I don't want you to get hurt!"

"And I don't want you to get killed, Neal. I'm trying to save your life!"

The two men stared at each other for a moment, both unsure of how to proceed.

"Peter, I'm going to do this. I have to. With or without your help I'm going to steal that statue. But it won't mean anything if you go looking for him. Please, Peter. I'll get the statue and then we can figure out how to draw him out at the drop."

Peter was silent for a long time. Finally, he said, "I'm going to the office. Would you like a ride over to June's? I assume that's where you and Mozzie will be plotting."

Neal smiled. "A ride would be great."


	7. Chapter 7

To say Peter had a bad day at work would be like saying Neal dressed slightly better than the average person.

He went straight to Hughes's office and had a very uncomfortable conversation with him. He said he had lied the day before when he said Neal had been kidnapped. He gave him Neal's story that they had argued and he had taken a swing at Neal. Neal had retaliated, shoving him into a wall and hitting his head. It had impacted his judgement, and he had lied, thinking that his partner would come back, and they could go back to everyday life. But after the night passed and he heard nothing from Neal, he decided to come clean.

Reese heard his story, listening intently without interrupting. When Peter finished, he looked at him, and there was a moment of silence before he exploded.

He started ranting about how he used to be able to trust Peter but now he couldn't trust if he was telling the truth or not and he was his best agent but he wasn't sure if he could protect Peter from the wrath of the Marshalls and how he was lucky he liked Peter because he wasn't going to suspend him but he should.

Then Hughes made it very clear that he had to find Caffrey and save his life. He wasn't fooled for a second, he knew better than to believe that Peter had hit Neal or that Neal had just upped and ran. He knew something was wrong, and he told Peter in no uncertain terms that it needed to be fixed. He liked his CIs in the alive stage of life, and and there was clearly something that could jeopardize that if Peter had showed up and blatantly lied to him.

When the lecture ended, Peter felt equal parts guilt at having lied to his boss and relief that he'd seen through it. But the hardest was still to come.

Hughes called the entire division to attention, standing above them on the steps. Peter stood apart from everyone else, but still two stairs below Hughes. He felt very conspicuous, all alone with nothing to say. He focused his gave down at his feet as Hughes began to speak.

"Agent Burke has just informed me that yesterday Neal Caffrey ws not, in fact, kidnapped. The two had an argument, which resulted in a small scruffle. In the end, Caffrey cut his anklet and ran.

"While Agent Burke's lies should have placed him on probation, I have decided to overlook them in order to do what he does best- find Caffrey.

"He has almost a day's headstart, so we need to act fast. Agent Burke will take lead, and everyone will report to him. Let's not let Caffrey get away with this."

Hughes walked up the remainder of the steps and into his office, closing the door just as noise broke out beow. Everyone wanted to know exactly what was going on. Thankfully, Hghes had sold it well- they all believed that Neal did, in fact, run. Well, not _all _of them.

Peter followed Hughes's lead, going upstairs into his office. He had a very uncomfortable call to make with the Marshalls.

He turned to close the door, only to find Diana and Jones standing right behind him.

Peter was tempted to tell them to go do their work, but he couldn't do that. He opened the door a bit, a signal for them to come in.

"Boss? Can you tell us exactly what happened?"

"There's no way Neal ran," Jones said. "Something else is going on here."

Peter desperately wanted to tell them the truth, but he had to trust Neal on this one. After the beating he got, it wold be downright cruel to do anything else.

"Diana, Jones, I'm sorry for lying to you yesterday. I was mad, and I was stupid. What Hughes told you is right. Neal and I fought. I hit him, cut open his lip, and he shoved me into a wall, and I hit my head and fell. Neal yelled at me, said he was wasting his time here, that I was keeping him from living his life. I asked him how long he's felt that way, pleaded with him to remember our friendship. And you know what he said? He said, 'People aren't friends with their jailers.' And then he turned around and walked away.

"I figured he'd get over it. I mean, we've had arguments before. There's never been lasting damage, though. At least I thought there wasn't. I made up the kidnapping story because I thought he'd cool off and come back. I didn't want his one rash decision to affect his sentence. But after he didn't even call last night, I knew I had to tell Hughes the truth."

Peter had practiced in the car on the way to the office, figuing some details would come in handy. He'd imagined what he'd do to Wilkes if he saw him when he needed to portray his anger against Neal. Overall, he thought he pulled off an Emmy-winning performance.

There was a pause, and Peter was sure they'd bought it. But then Jones started laughing. "Wow, Peter, if I didn't know you and Caffrey as well as I do, I would've actually believed that. Did Caffrey show you how to tell a story like that?"

"I'm not telling a story, Jones. It's the tru-"

"Stop. If you have to make up stories, fine. But don't lie to us. You're better than that." Diana was angry, and for once Peter understood what it was like to be on the opposite side of an interrogation table from her. "We know Caffrey's in trouble, and we want to help. Even if you can't tell us what's going on, tell us what we can do to help."

"Right now," Peter said, "we need road blocks and wanted posters. We need to get the word out, _fast,_ that he's gone."

Diana shot him an inquisitive look, wanting more, a hint of some sort.

Peter spoke slowly, choosing his words carefully.

"_Someone _needs to know he _ran, _needs to know we're looking for him."

Diana nodded, and she and Jones turned to leave, but Peter called them back. "I know you'll want to do some digging on your own, but _please don't_. This is _not_ code for go dig where I can't see you. This is _don't investigate further._"

"Can I ask why?" Jones said.

"You said you wanted to help, start by not putting his life in jeopardy... any more than it already is."

They clearly wanted to ask what was going on, but Peter made it clear the conversation was over.

As the door shut behind them, Peter picked up the phone and starting dialing the number for the US Marshall service.


	8. Chapter 8

"June." Neal embraced her the moment he walked in the door.

"Neal, I missed you last night," she said, her sweet tone soothing him.

"I'm sorry, June," Neal responded. "I had a bit of a run-in with an old friend."

"Nothing too bad, I hope?" June asked, knowing exactly what he meant.

"Nothing I won't recover from soon enough," he replied. "I'm more worried about everyone else."

"Ah, he's still around? Well, don't worry about me, Neal. I'll keep an eye out, and I'm quicker than I look."

"That you are June, and sharp as a tack." Neal smiled. "One more thing." He held up his pants leg to reveal the missing anklet. "Peter knows, but the rest think I ran. It has to stay that way."

"Of course," she said, not questioning him for a second. "Now, I assume you and Mozzie have some work to do? Go on, I won't keep you."

Neal left June, somehow unsurprised to find out that Mozzie was already waiting for him.

"Hey Moz," Neal said as he entered his room, grinning at the sight of a bald head poking out of his liquor cabinet.

"Mon frère! I have been awaiting your arrival. Would you like a glass?" Mozzie offered Neal a glass of wine, but Neal shook his head. He didn't want to mix alcohol and painkillers.

He stepped into the bathroom and swallowed some quickly, sipping some water to get them down.

He came back into the room and sat down at the table. "Mozzie," he said. "I have to tell you what happened to me yesterday. You should sit down."

He told Mozzie the whole story, including Wilkes's threat against Peter. The only thing he left out were the details of the beating he took, as he Peter too.

Finally he told Mozzie about the Boy King, and how they had 3 days to steal it, or else Wilkes would come after Peter.

"Neal..." Mozzie trailed off, and Neal looked down at his feet, uncomfortably. Mozzie _never _trailed off, he always had something to say. But not this time.

There was an uncomfortable silence, before Neal broke it. "We have to steal it, Moz. There's no other way. We can pull a flip and-"

"Neal, slow down. This is _Wilkes_ were talking about. As soon as he gets what he wants, he'll kill you."

"Yes, but if he _doesn't _get what he wants, he'll hurt Peter," Neal responded.

"It always comes back to the suits, doesn't it," Mozzie muttered. He raised his head and saw the look in Neal's eyes. "Ok. So let's steal the Boy King."

Neal smiled. "We know the security in the exhibits is top-notch, so we can't get at it there."

"But the restoration room has fewer cameras, and easily penetrable," Mozzie supplied. "I'll spill a drink or something on it as I'm walking by. They'll take it downstairs, and you'll slip past security..."

"Through the service entrance," said Neal.

"Perfect."

"I'll swap the statue for my own replica, and we'll be on our way."

"One problem," Mozzie said. "If it's in the restoration room they'll find out its a fake immediately. Yours will _look _convincing, but even you can't make the weight of a fake match the orgininal's in three days. You'd need either solid gold, which we don't have and we woudn't use even if we did, or pure tungsten, which is hard to get, not to mention the work shaping it. We just don't have the time."

"Exactly," Neal said. "We _want_ the museum to know its a fake, because I'll give the real one to Wilkes, then he can take the fall for stealing it."

"Clever," Mozzie said. "That'll get the FBI on his trail, without breaking your deal with Wilkes."

Neal smiled. "Now you've got it."

"I'll procure the materials. I know a guy that does high quality faux-gold paint."

"Great," said Neal. "I'll work from the blue prints and figure out all my possible exits. We also need a security uniform."

"Piece of cake," said Mozzie. He stood up to leave, downing the rest of his wine. When he reached the door he turned around. "You going to tell the suit?"

Neal shook his head. "The less he knows about the theft, the better. And Mozzie... be careful. There's no reason to believe Wilkes could be after you, but it wouldn't hurt to keep an eye out."

Mozzie laughed. "Neal, when _don't _I have an eye out?" With that he left the room, and Neal was alone with his thoughts.


	9. Chapter 9

The next morning, they were ready. Well, as ready as they'd ever be. Neal had studied the floor plans for the Feinburg until he could recreate them from memory, and had gone to the museum itself, in a hat and sunglasses, to case the place. He knew the shifts of the few security guards, where the cameras were, and a few of the names of the female docents.

Mozzie had gotten Neal a uniform and the materials for the statue's double.

Neal had quickly scuplpted the frame of the statue, then covered it in the gold-hued paint. Not his best work, but enough to pass on first glance. There was no need to do more- as soon as someone picked it up they'd know it was a fake. But Neal couldn't resist making it as identical as possible, anyway. He did add a little surprise on the bottom, in the hope it would help Peter when the time came.

Mozzie came by in the morning, and brought his power box, that had the ability to overcome most security systems. Including the one in the Feinburg.

Everything was ready.

But Neal knew something was wrong. And Mozzie could tell.

"Neal. The power box works- they won't see anything."

"I know, Moz."

"The plan is simple, straightforward. And you know every escape route if something goes wrong."

"I know, Moz."

"Then what is it?"

"Wilkes."

"I know, Neal. But we'll worry about him _after _we get the statue. There's nothing he can do to us until then, anyway."

"It's not _us, _I'm worried about, Moz," Neal said softly, but just loud enough to be heard. "We have no plan, no steps in place to take once we've got it. I know, I know," he said when Mozzie tried to interrupt. "But we're at his mercy, he's holding all the cards. There's got to be a way to change the tables, that's all. There's got to be a way for us to have _some _advantage."

"I know," Mozzie conceded. "I've been thinking about it too. But the only thing I can think of is getting you and the suit out of harm's way and to a safe house, but that wouldn't solve the problem of catching Wilkes, and you can't stay there forever."

Neal nodded, and got up, realizing the point was futile. He grabbed a jacket that said 'security' in large print on the back of it, and put it on, stifling a groan. It wouldn't do well to dwell on the fact that he still had broken ribs- he just hoped he wouldn't have to make a run for it at the museum.

Neal and Mozzie made their way over to the museum. They walked in silence, Mozzie running through the plan, and Neal thinking about what Mozzie had said. In order for this situation to end, they needed to catch Wilkes. And doing it during the drop had too many unknown factors for Neal's liking. But with threats over Peter, Neal couldn't go after Wilkes. And with threats over Neal, Peter couldn't go after Wilkes. Which brought Neal to what Mozzie had said... _out of harm's way. _They couldn't both hide, because that would leave Wilkes free. But if Neal was out of the way, Peter would be able to go after Wilkes, and Wilkes wouldn't have the advantage. As long as Peter didn't rush into anything, it would work. But Neal couldn't just go to a safehouse. As much as he trusted Mozzie, he couldn't know how long Wilkes's reach was. He couldn't be sure he'd be safe there. And he needed Wilkes not to actively hunt down Peter. If only there was a secure place he could go without Wilkes thinking he had dropped his end of the deal and made a plan with Peter...

And then it hit him. Neal stopped dead in his tracks, in view of the museum.

"Neal? Neal, snap out of it. We're ready for this." Mozzie sounded confused. Neal had never acted this nervous, or really nervous at all, before a con. And in perspective, this was a really easy con.

"We're not using the box," Neal said.

"What do you mean, we're not using the box? Without it, you'll show up on the security tape."

"Exactly," said Neal.

"I don't understand," said Mozzie. "Without the box, the alarm will be triggered, and you'll be caught on video stealing the statue."

Neal faced his best friend, willing him to understand what he was about to say. "I need to go to jail. No, listen to me. It's the only place I'll be safe from Wilkes where he won't think I ran. He'd go after Peter if I did. And with me out of the picture, Peter will be free to use the entire FBI force to catch Wilkes."

"So you're going to let yourself get caught? Neal, without the box they'll convict you for sure."

"I know."

"So you'll, what, serve your time?"

"I hope not. When Peter catches Wilkes, he should be able to clear me, as I'm doing this under threat."

Mozzie breathed out sharply. "That's a lot riding on the suit."

"He'll come through," Neal said. It was the only thing he'd said all day that he was sure about.

"Neal, prison will be different this time," Mozzie said.

"I know," Neal responded quietly. "FBI snitches don't exactly get 5-star treatment in prison."

The two thieves stood on the sidewalk in New York City, looking at the museum they were about to rob, and thinking about the future.

"Are you sure about this?"

Neal nodded. "It'll be over soon, I'll be back before you know it."

Mozzie nodded and walked towards the entrance, while Neal split off to go in the service door. Neal knew his words of comfort were false. He knew Mozzie was wondering if he'd ever see him alive again.


	10. Chapter 10

Peter was trying to read a cold case file on mortgage fraud, without much success. His mind kept wandering to Neal. He hadn't heard from him since he dropped him off at June's two days prior. He kept wanting to pick up the phone and make sure he was still ok, but he knew he had to give him some space, and that Neal would call eventually.

He turned his attention back to the file, willing himself to comprehend the words on the page. He had just started concentrating when his phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Peter."

"Neal! Oh my god it's so good to hear from you."

"Yeah, you too."

There was a certain _something_ in the tone of Neal's voice that Peter couldn't quite place over the phone, and it made him nervous. "Where are you? Are you ok?"

"I'm right outside the Feinburg Museum," said Neal. He didn't say anything about being ok or not. "Listen, Peter, in about 10 minutes you're going to get a call about a break-in at the museum. You need to be the one to come investigate, and you need to arrest me."

"What?" Neal-"

"Peter listen to me. When I'm in prison, Wilkes will have nothing to hold over your head. You can hunt him down and catch him, then use his confession to get me out, on duress."

"That's really risky, Neal. Are you sure-"

"It's the only way."

"Neal, what if I can't get you out? Or what if I'm too late?"

"You won't be, Peter. I trust you."

Neal's words hung heavy on Peter's shoulders.

"What about you? Neal, you may be safe from Wilkes in jail, but-"

"I know, Peter."

There was silence on the line for a moment, and each man could practically hear the others' thoughts.

Finally, Neal broke the silence. "It's the only way to get ahead. I'll be fine, you just worry about catching Wilkes. And be careful, no unneccesary risks. He'll be keeping track of you, I'm sure. You _cannot_ let yourself get caught- your first priority has to be keeping yourself safe."

"Neal-"

"Take care, Peter. I'll see you soon." He hung up, leaving Peter holding a phone to his ear in a quiet office, straining to hear his partner's voice that was already gone.

"Boss?" Diana opened the door to his office rather hesitantly. "I have the files you asked for... is everything alright?" She looked at Peter, who was still holding the cell phone and was just staring at it's black screen.

Peter snapped out of it, putting down the phone and taking the folders from Diana. "Yeah, yeah I'm good."

Diana lingered, and Peter could tell she knew something was wrong. "Diana? Is there anything else?" Peter asked.

They were interrupted by a sharp knock on the door as Jones entered. "Sorry to interrupt, but there's been a break-in at the Feinburg Art Museum. NYPD is eight minutes out, but we're closer and we've got jurisdiction. Do you want to check it out?"

Peter paled slightly, and muttered, "That was fast."

Jones and Diana exchanged a glance. "What's going on?" asked Diana.

Peter stood up, grabbing his jacket and double checking that he had a pair of handcuffs. Before leaving, he looked back at his two most loyal, trusted agents. "We're about to arrest Neal Caffrey."


	11. Chapter 11

Considering how he knew it would end, Neal thought the con went really well.

Mozzie coughed on the idol, loudly enough and forcefully enough (not to mention theatrically enough) that the museum determined it should be taken downstairs to be examined. He was let off with just a suggestion to see a doctor.

Neal made his way smoothly and easily downstairs, swiping the security card he'd lifted from the pretty docent in the lobby. He picked the lock on the protective box around the statue where they were keeping it until the experts arrived to inspect it, and he cut the cord that he knew would trigger the silent alarm.

From there, he switched the statues and placed the much heavier one in his bag.

He climbed the stairs and went out the back exit. He only had to stand behind the museum for a minute until he heard his name.

"Neal Caffrey! Freeze! You're under arrest!"

Neal found it hard to keep a straight face as he turned and saw Peter approaching him, flanked by Jones and Diana. But he couldn't smile- NYPD was behind them, so Neal had to make it look as real as possible.

Neal had his hands up, but they stayed there for only a second before Jones took the bag off his shoulder and Peter pulled his hands behind his back and cuffed him. Neal hissed slightly at the strain it placed on his ribs, but controlled it enough that no one noticed.

Peter took his arm to lead him out of the alley and towards the arriving police cars, which would take him back to prison.

"Neal-" Peter muttered.

"Make sure you lock up the statue in evidence," Neal interrupted, quietly enough so only Peter could hear. "Wilkes really wants that particular statue. He might go after it and play right into your hands. And you can tell Jones and Diana now. The whole story."

"I'll fix this," Peter said. He kept his voice low but Neal heard him quite clearly.

"You can communicate to me through Mozzie. He'll be in touch." Neal was trying to focus on the plan, the facts, in order to ignore the fear and uncertainty threatening to swallow him whole.

"You won't be there long, Neal. I'll find him and get you out, fast."

Neal swallowed, knowing, as he neared the police cars, that he was headed straight into the lion's mough. But he knew it was the right thing to do.

The door to the police car opened, and Neal was pushed inside. But before they started driving, Neal caught Peter's eye outside the car and mouthed _thank you_. And then the car pulled away, taking Neal Caffrey back to jail.


	12. Chapter 12

Peter watched as the police car pulled away, taking Neal to prison. He tried not to think about the condition he'd be in when he saw him next. He finally tore his gaze away from the retreating car and back towards the crime scene. Diana and Jones looked utterly confused; so much so, that if Peter wasn't consumed with worry for Neal, he would've started laughing.

"Jones, take the statue to evidence personally. Make sure it's under lock and key, and put it in the view of a camera. Diana, talk to NYPD, tell them the case is open and close. Then smooth things over with the museum- it's crucial the statue stays under FBI supervision. I'm going to call the Marshalls, then brief Hughes. I'll meet you both at my place in a half an hour, and we'll talk, ok?"

They both nodded, and split off to do the jobs Peter gave them.

A half an hour later, the three of them sat in the Burke's living room. Elizabeth was still at work, so they had some privacy. Peter got 3 beers, despite the early hour. Then he started talking.

He told them everything- starting with Neal saving him from being kidnapped, to when he showed up on their doorstep beaten, to when he called that morning asking Peter to arrest him. He told them about Wilkes's threat and Neal's plan. The only think he didn't tell them was the danger Neal faced back in prison. He didn't need to- they figured it out on their own.

Diana said she saw the initials 'RW' carved into the bottom of the forged statue when she further investigated the scene at the museum.

"Thank you, Neal," Peter muttered. "That'll give the FBI enough reason to start looking into Wilkes in conjunction with the crime."

"So what happens now?" Diana asked. "He goes to jail for a crime he was coerced into committing, and Wilkes goes free while Neal is beaten daily?" As much as Diana complained about him, it was clear that she had really grown to care about Neal in the short amount of time she'd known him.

"There's only one way out of this," Peter said. "With Neal in jail, Wilkes no longer has leverage, so we can use the bureau's resources without fear of his retaliation against Neal. We have to find Wilkes and arrest him. And we need proof of some sort that Wilkes blackmailed Neal. That'll be enough to get Neal out."

"And we need to do it soon," Jones added. "The longer Caffrey is in jail, the shorter his life expectancy."

"Right," Peter said, trying to swallow the lump in his throat. "So let's get started."


	13. Chapter 13

Neal didn't actually get to his cell, his new, hopefully temporary, home, until later that day. He had just enough time to join the other prisoners for dinner, but he decided to ignore his hunger and stay in his cell for that day. He knew as soon as the other inmates saw him, he'd be in trouble, and he wanted to put off that moment for as long as possible. He'd take a hungry stomach over physical injuries for as long as he could.

The next morning, Neal awoke abruptly as the lights were turned on and the guards yelled. He was surprised he fell asleep at all, as he had lay in his cot the night before for hours, consumed with worry- both for himself and his friends on the outside.

Neal pulled on his bright orange shirt, already pining for Byron's nice suits he'd worn before. He stood up, waited for his cell to open, and put on his best con man's face to hide the sickening swoop going through his stomach, making him nauseous, especially in combination with the dull throb that still pulsed through his hurt ribs. In his life, he'd been able to mentally prepare himself for a lot. This was just not one of those times.

Neal was released into the general area for breakfast with all his fellow inmates. He looked straight ahead of him, now showing any fear, and avoiding eye contact.

After a poor excuse for eggs were dumped on his plate along with a hard piece of toast, Neal made his way over to an empty table. He would give anything for a cup of June's Italian Roast Coffee at that moment.

He had just raised a bite of food to his mouth when he felt two large bodies sit down next to him, slamming their trays on the table. They sat too close for comfort, their large forearms brushing against Neal's sides.

Across from him, a rather old man slid into the seat. Neal recognized him immediately, and he set his fork back down on his tray.

"Walker. Fancy seeing you here." Neal kept his voice upbeat as he looked at the man that had orchestrated three flawless bank robberies before Peter and Neal caught him.

"Neal Caffrey. It's been a while. I wanted to welcome you here. Although, I guess I'm really welcoming you back." Walker smiled slightly. "Your buddy Burke couldn't protect you this time?"

Walker had a talent for find people's buttons, that was for sure. But Neal kept his mouth shut.

Walker continued. "Going to prison was never part of my plan, Caffrey. But, when I got here, I decided to make the best of a bad situation. You know, carpe diem and all that. And it turns out, money means a lot in prison.

"When I was informed that last night Neal Caffrey was back in orange, I couldn't believe it! But I contacted some friends of mine, and we all agreed we'd like to see this for ourselves. I believe you know these men?" Walker gestured to the men sitting uncomfortably close to Neal on either side. Neal glanced at one of them, but he didn't recognize him. "No? Perhaps you know them through a mutual friend, Curtis Hagan?" Now that he mentioned it, Neal rememered the thug sitting next to him as one of the men who pulled him into the warehouse when he was taking pictures.

Neal turned his attention back to Walker. "Are you done yet? I'd like to enjoy my eggs, now," he said, his words sharp and full of hatred.

"Why, I think now that we all know one another, we should take a walk." He stood and the thugs followed suit. Neal knew he had to choice; he stood up and followed Walker, as one of the thugs followed closely right behind Neal.

Neal wondered where they were going. The inmates had not yet been dismissed from their meal and the guards lined the exits. There was no where to go.

Sure enough, as they approached an exit, two guards stopped them. "No prisoner is allowed to leave the meals early. There is a punishment. Now follow me, all of you."

Neal couldn't help but smile slightly. It was worth getting punished by the guards just to see Walker go down, too.

But as they were marched out of the eating area and into a completely empty, small room and the guards turned around and walked away, Neal realized they weren't getting punished at all. And then, with a sinking feeling, he realized Walker's comment about money wasn't random. He had all the guards in his pocket.

Neal swallowed. It was only going to get worse from there.

"You see, Caffrey, none of us _want _to be here. And it is thanks to _you _that we are."

As Walker spoke, he leaned casually against the wall, crossing his arms. One of the thugs stepped behind Neal, and the other stood in front.

"I'm going to enjoy this, Caffrey," Walker said.

Before Neal could even think about trying to run, the large man behind him grabbed his arms. Then the man in front started punching.

It was constant, and vicious. Over and over he swung. Pulling his massive fist back, then releasing it towards Neal.

His ribs.

His side.

His face.

Over and over and over again.

Neal fought against the man behind him, trying to free his arms, but it was no use. The man was too big, too strong, and Neal was still weak from his former beating.

Finally they stopped, the man in front of him stepping back.

Walker stepped up to him, a big smile on his face. "You know, this _almost _makes the jumpsuit worth it."

Neal lunged at him, fueled with an anger that made him blind with red, but the man behind him hadn't let go and he was pulled back from Walker. He heard a pop in his shoulder, coupled with a fresh surge of pain in that area.

Walker chuckled softly under his breath. "Still fighting, Caffrey? I think we can change that. Our next guest won't be happy if you make things challenging."

Walker stepped back from him, and the thug moved out of Neal's field of vision.

The man behind Neal let go of him, but his freedom only lasted for a split second, before his arms were grabbed again and held tightly behind him. The other guy stepped in front of Neal, a small smile on his face as he prepared to beat Neal.

Again and again his fists rained down. Neal felt his ribs crack, heard his teeth knock together as fist collided with jaw.

When it ended, and his arms were realsed, Neal staggered against the wall and slid down into a sitting position, his breathing ragged and far too loud.

Neal heard voices and footsteps outside, and realized breakfast was over. He wondered how long they'd been out there and he hadn't noticed. He wondered how many people had heard the sounds but didn't come in. He wondered if anyone would care if he died in that room.

"There's another person you should meet. He's longing to see you." Walker paused, smiling as he took in Neal's weak appearance. "I believe you know him as Mr. Black."

Neal swallowed, trying to ignore the pain that just wouldn't stop. If Mr. Black was coming, it could only being going from bad to worse.

Mr. Black was an assassin for hire, one that Neal had impersonated in order to find missing bonds in a case with Sara Ellis. His only interaction with the man himself was when he put a gun to Neal's head. Luckily, Sara had a gun to his. Then the FBI burst in, and that's how Mr. Black ended up here.

"Ah," Walker said, clearly pleased. "Here he comes now."

Mr. Black stode in the room, looking much more intimidating than the thugs, despite his smaller size. He held in his hand a sharp sliver of glass. Neal didn't know where he'd gotten it, but it wasn't that hard to guess how he was going to use it. And Neal knew the damage inflicted by it could be more painful than that from a knife.

Black approached Neal slowly, taking his time. He took a moment to study him, looking at his less-than-threatening position, slumped on the floor.

He started laughing, an eerie loud laugh that echoed throughout the otherwise silent room. "_This_ is the man that impersonated me? You're the man they sent in place to be _me_? Well, this'll be easier than I thought."

He stopped laughing, and kicked Neal, hard, in the gut. "Stand up."

Neal groaned in pain, despite his attempts to not show his injuries, as he and straighted to stand. He hissed as his ribs uncurled.

"Whatever happens now, _stay _standing, until I'm through with you."

The tone of his voice was unmistakable and Neal knew if he didn't do as he said, he wouldn't see Peter or Mozzie or anyone else ever again.

Black got to work. He circled Neal, studying him, then swiftly attacked, jamming the makeshirt knife into Neal's shoulder and dragging it down his arm a new inches before releasing. Neal couldn't help it- he cried out in pain, as the rather dull blade pierced his skin and left a trail of blood in its wake.

Black was quick and brutal, plunging the shiv into Neal's body and releasing, then immediately striking again.

Neal was in pain all over his body, and it increased with every passing second. All he wanted was to pass out, give in to the blissful darkness that was threatening to overwhelm him. But he held out, gritting his teeth against the pain and hoping it would end soon. He didn't want Black to have a chance to do what he did best.

Finally, _finally, _it was over. Black stepped back, tossed the shred of glass into the corner where it shattered, taking away all traces of his fingerprints and creating a small pile of shards and blood, and walked out of the room without another word.

Walker, who had been watching the whole time, walked up to Neal, getting in his face. "I don't know who did this to you," he said, in the same fake, sweet tone of voice he had used when he thought he'd gotten away with another robbery. "But let's hope they catch him, before he can act again."

Neal got the message, and Walker left the room.

The thugs started to follow him, then one turned around and walked over to Neal. He brought his fist back, and Neal knew what was gong to happen a split second before it did, but he was too weak to move. The thug's fist came back at him, punching Neal squarely in the face. Neal crumped to the ground, unconscious.


	14. Chapter 14

Peter hadn't slept that night. There were bags under his eyes and a large cup of coffee in his hand. Littered across the table were files and notes, papers covering papers.

He rubbed his eyes and picked up another file, glancing at his computer. Cross-referencing Wilkes's known aliases and hideouts with current data had been exhausting, but worth it. Peter, with help from Jones and Diana, now had a rough idea of where Wilkes was hiding out. What they needed was a plan.

He heard foorsteps and looked up to see Elizabeth coming down the stairs, yawning slightly. "Morning, hon," she said with a smile, a walked over to kiss him. "Were you up all last night?"

"I'm so close, El," Peter responded. "And I keep picturing Neal..." he trailed off.

"I'm sure he's fine," Elizabeth said, busing herself in the kitchen to make break fast. "It's the first morning he's in there, I'm sure nothing can have happened yet. And you'll be able to get him out before anything bad _can_ happen."

Peter nodded, proud of his wife's optimism but not sharing it.

"I bet he's just complaining about the food right now," Elizabeth said, which drew a small smile from Peter.

Elizabeth gently moved some of the papers aside and placed a cereal bowl in front of Peter. He began pouring himself some cereal, reassured that nothing could have happened to Neal yet. They'd get him out before anyone could hurt him.

A half an hour later, Peter was kissing his wife goodbye and then driving to the FBI building. He had convinced himself that Neal was ok, and was sure that with Diana and Jones's help they'd have a plan to nail Wilkes and free Neal by the end of the day. Surely Neal would be fine for at least a couple days, until word spreads. And they'd get him out before the week was over- yes, Peter decided, Neal was just fine.

Diana and Jones were even more helpful than he'd anticipated. While he was running on adrenaline and coffee, they had a full night's sleep and a fresh take on the case. Thanks to this, the three of them hammered out a solid plan by lunchtime. All they needed was Wilkes to bite.

They'd give the statue back to the museum, and make a public announcement that it was safe and the culprit behind the attempted robbery was behind bars. Then it would be a simple matter of waiting for Wilkes to come by and take it, himself. They knew from their hours of reading files, as well as from Neal, that Wilkes was as stubborn as they get- multiple times he'd gone back for an item that he'd failed to get before. It had even landed him jail time, but that definitely hadn't taught him his lesson. When he wanted something, he wouldn't stop until he got it. That, apparently, included everything from small golden statues to possible kidnapping victims.

And it also seemed to include Neal Caffrey's death.

Which was all the more motivation to lock him up.

So Peter and his team, short one consultant, put their plan into action, and then settled into the van to watch the museum.

Diana and Jones took the first watch, getting ready to spend hours keeping an eye on the entrances and exits, as well as the statue. They smiled at each other when Peter started snoring, having refused to leave the van earlier, but otherwise it was quiet.

It was 3 in the afternoon when they woke Peter. He mumbled soething about coffee and left the van. A few minutes later he returned with coffee and sustenance, and turned his gaze towards the monitors as Jones and Diana gratefully accepted the food. He tried not to think about Neal's constant whining about the van. _Neal's fine, _he reminded himself. _He might be in danger, but right now he's fine and complaining about his wardrobe options. He's fine._

Another hour passed and Wilkes didn't show. However, there were a couple of suspicious men walking around the museum, as if casing it. Facial recognition and known associates connected them with Wilkes. And even better, one of the new, smaller cameras the FBI had installed just for the case provided them with a direct view of the phone number one of the men called. They were getting somewhere.

Diana, in a stoke of genius, called Wilkes with the number they'd gotten from the security feed. She'd pretended to be selling him something, and did a good job of keeping him on the line. Peter's blood boiled when he heard Wilkes's arrogant voice, but he stayed quiet and Jones tracked the call. And with that, they had a location.

Peter was about to call his wife to are the good news and tell her he would be spending the night in the van, when he got an unexpected phone call from an unknown number.

"Hello?"

"Suit! You are so lucky I know Neal-"

"Mozzie? Why are you calling? What about Neal?"

Mozzie continued as if he hadn't been interrupted. "-so lucky I know Neal did this voluntarily and I trust his judgement, because otherwise I would be on my way to hurt you right now!"

Peter's brow furrowed. Mozzie wasn't a violent person, usually. What would bring Mozzie to threaten him? And what did Neal have to do with it? "Mozzie, what are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about Neal! They found him this morning, unconscious, unrecognizable, and covered in his own blood. If Neal hadn't done all this to save your life, I would kill you!"

Peter's face paled, and he temporarily lost the ability to speak. He heard the line click dead, but the phone stayed next to his ear.

"Boss? Everything ok?" Diana asked.

"I- Neal... I have to go." He looked around, seeing people pass by on the monitors. "You got this?"

They both nodded, looking confused and worried.

Peter didn't hesitate, grabbing his jacket and jumping out of the van.

Peter sped to the prison, Mozzie's words echoing in his head.

_Unconscious. _

_Unrecognizable. _

_Covered in his own blood. _

He got there quickly, as he hadn't paid much attention to speed limits. The prison infirmary was usually off-limits to visitors, but between his badge and the look on his face, he was able to get in.

The curtains were drawn around Neal's bed, and a doctor stepped in front of Peter before he coulde reach the bed.

"Are you here for Mr. Caffrey?" the doctor asked.

Peter could only nod, his jaw clenched.

"You have to be aware, sir, that he took quite a beating. With all the bruising and scarring, he looks a little different right now. He will be in a lot of pain for a while, and it doesn't help that he wasn't found until a couple of hours after it happened. I have him on a pretty high dose of pain medication right now, which is keeping him unconscious or slightly delirious. Coupled with a concussion, he seems to be stuck in a memory, talking to people who aren't here. He may not react the way he normally does."

Peter could only nod. He was so scared, to see Neal, and for Neal. "Can I- can I see him?" Peter asked, swallowing a lump in his throat.

The doctor nodded, pulling aside the curtain.

"Oh, Neal," breathed Peter. He looked down at his partner, and his heart dropped.

Neal made the beating from the other night look like a trip to the spa. His orange pants were on, but they'd taken off his shirt and Peter could clearly see the bruises that were unable to be hidden under bandages. Some were tinged with a sickly green, but most were dark, and fresh. There were bandages covering his chest and arms, but Peter could see blood seeping through a few of them.

Neal's eyes were closed, but he was only asleep- Peter could see the lines of pain etched in his face. He had a cut under his hairline, and a pair of bruises on his jawline and just under one of his eyes.

Peter sat down heavily in the chair, and put a hand gently over Neal's. "I am so sorry, Neal," he muttered, feeling self-conscious about talking to someone who couldn't hear him, but needing to say the words all the same. "I should never have agreed to this."

Peter looked down at his feet, unable to take in Neal's battered appearance, when he felt Neal's hand move.

"Neal?"

Neal's eyes cracked open slightly, a bit of magnificent blue showing. His mouth tightened into a grimace of pain as he blinked a few times, until his eyes finally opened all the way.

"Neal." Peter looked down sadly at his partner, and was surprised to see alarm register on his face.

"Agent Burke." Neal's voice was raspy and cold. Peter felt Neal yank his hand away from Peter's, wincing in pain as he did so.

"Neal, what's wrong? Are you ok?" Peter asked, confused and concerned.

Neal gave a tight laugh, but his eyes were cold and distant. "It's 'Neal' now? Not 'Caffrey?' I wasn't aware that FBI agents are on first name terms with the men they lock up."

"Neal..." Peter trailed off, unsure of what to say. He remembered what the doctor said, that he'd been reliving the past.

Neal turned away from Peter, focusing his attention on the doctor. "Is he my only visitor?" he asked. The _he _was spoken with venom Peter had never heard before. "No one else? Possibly a beautiful girl, stunning eyes and long brown hair?"

_Kate. _Neal expected a visit from Kate. Peter's heart dropped even more.

The doctor shook his head. "Just him and the short, bald man. Your lawyer. No girls, I'm afraid."

Neal slouched in the bed, visibly disappointed. Then he turned his attention back to Peter.

"Agent Burke. Is there anything I can do for you, or are you just here to gloat?"

"To- to gloat?" Peter shook his head. "Neal, who did this to you?"

Another cold laugh from Neal, accompanied by a wince as his ribs throbbed painfully. "Does it matter?" His voice was hollow. "It's prison. Pretty boy, in for bond forgery? I'm in a maximum security prison with murderers, even though all I did was was forge bonds. I never hurt anyone. Everything about me screams fresh meat."

At this, Neal turned away from Peter. The doctor pulled the curtain back around him, and took Peter aside. "Listen, agent. I don't know what the deal is between you two, but I think you should go now. I understand there's more of a connection between you than Mr. Caffrey realizes right how, but you just have to give him time. He was mumbling _your_ name over and over when he first woke up. He'll remember. He's just stuck in the past now, mainly because of the drugs, and I'm sure the location doesn't help."

"What do you mean, about the location?"

"Well, I checked Mr. Caffrey's prison medical records when he was first admitted. A few years back, not even a month after his original sentencing, actually, he was beaten pretty badly. He was brought here, which probably triggered the memory now."

Peter nodded, dumbstruck, and turned away from the doctor. He walked all the way out to his car mechanically, just going through the motions without realizing what he was doing. He only had one thought:

_How many times am I going to hurt Neal Caffrey?_


	15. Chapter 15

The first thing he felt was pain, intense pain radiating throughout his body. He opened his eyes, squinting around at his surroundings. It didn't take him long to figure out that he was in the prison infirmary. How he got there, that was something he didn't know.

"Mr. Caffrey. How are you feeling?"

Neal eyes tracked a tall man in a white doctor's coat as he walked around Neal's bed and stood next to the machines on one side.

"I've been better," groaned Neal. "How long?"

"You've been here a day," the doctor replied, "but this is the first time you've woken up lucid. We just lowered your pain medications, and you should be discharged soon."

"First time I've been lucid..." Neal repeated. "Did I, you know, _say _anything I shouldn't have?" He tried to shift positions to look the doctor in the eye, but only moaned in distress as his ribs shifted.

"Easy," the he said, motioning to Neal's bandanged chest. "Nothing you said will get you in trouble." The doctor had a twinkle in his eye, having dealt with inmates for a while and knew what information they could give up while on medications. "However, I don't think that agent, Peter I think was his name, will hurry back here."

"Peter was- ugh." Neal sat up when he heard Peter had come to visit, but fell back against the pillows in pain.

"Yes, Peter did visit," said the doctor calmly, checking Neal's heart rate. "Take these." He handed Neal a couple of pills and a glass of water, and Neal downed the pills.

"What did he say? What did _I _say?"

"You were pretty mad at him." The doctor unwrapped the bandages around Neal's ribs to look at the bruising, then wrapped them again. "You thought it was 6 years ago, and you'd just been convicted."

"Oh." Neal's voice was soft. He couldn't imagine he'd had anything nice to say to his friend if he was in that state of mind.

"Sign this," the doctor handed Neal a clipboard. "And come back tonight for more pain pills. You'll need them."

Neal signed the sheet and pulled his orange shirt over his head, wincing in pain.

"Until then, stay out of trouble," the doctor warned. "You're off of work duties, but I'm not stupid, I've been here long enough. When a prisoner is brought here once, he's usually back here again within 24 hours of being released. Stay away from whoever did this to you. I don't know how much more those ribs can take before they become useless at protecting your organs."

Neal nodded and swung his legs off the bed. He thanked the doctor, and then left the infirmary, and walked the short distance to his cell.

He was relieved he had a single cell, and didn't have to deal with a cellmate. By the time he got to his cell, he was exhausted, and his ribs were throbbing.

It was still pretty early in the day, but Neal had no desire to go to the yard with the other inmates, and he didn't have to report to work. Hoping none of the guards would come looking for him, he lay down on his cot, arms wrapped protectively around his ribs, and stared at the ceiling.

Neal wondered what was going on with Wilkes. Had Peter caught him yet? Apparently not, as Neal was still in prison. He hoped Wilkes didn't get suspcious and go underground. The longer Wilkes was free, the longer Peter wouldn't be safe. And the longer Neal would be stuck in jail.

Neal was so wrapped up in his thoughts, he didn't hear footseps approaching. Until he saw someone standing over him.

_Not again, _Neal thought.

"Caffrey."

"Hello, Deckard," Neal replied, forcing a smile on his face. "It's been a while."

"Yeah, it has," Deckard growled. "Let me tell you, I haven't enjoyed my time in prison. But maybe you can make my life a little better."

Neal looked at Deckard and saw a large scar running from the side of his forehead to just below his ear, crossing his face and giving him the look of a villian in a movie who's makeup artist was slightly drunk. Prison wasn't kind to ex-law enforcement, crooked or otherwise.

"Get up, Caffrey."

"You know, I'd really rather-"

"I said, _get. Up._"

Neal knew he didn't have a choice. Slowly, with a blank face that could only be achieved with all the years worth of practice hiding his emotions as he had, he stood up and faced Deckard.

Without warning, Deckard attacked.

One, two three punches to the ribs.

Neal cried out in pain and fell back on the bed, unable to defend himself. His breath came in short gasps, as Deckard continued his relentless attack.

And then, as suddenly as it started, it stopped. It must've only lasted about a minute or two. Deckard took one last look at Neal, who had fallen back on to his cot and looked quite pitiful with his legs brushing the floor, and he left.

Neal tried to force air into his lungs, but his body seemed to have forgotten how to breathe.

Slowly, painfully, he caught his breath. He was lying on his side, and he pushed himself up into a sitting position, his teeth gritting against the pain.

He leaned forward and coughed, a hacking cough filled with blood that stained the floor and turned his teeth a bright red.

He knew that was a bad sign, and that he needed to get to the infirmary as quickly as possible.

But that meant walking.

Neal pushed himself up, using his cot as support, and was able to stumble over to the bars of his cell. He leaned heavily against a wall, coughing miserably as more blood spurted from his mouth.

He tried to continue walking, but the searing pain in his ribs argued vehemently against that idea. He fell to the ground, an outstetched arm being the ony thing preventing him from landing flat on his face. All he wanted to do was lay down, give in to the pain, and fall unconscious. But he knew that wasn't an option.

It took all his strength, both physically and mentally, to drag himself along the floor, crawling towards help. He left a trail of blood behind him, between the cough that wracked his body and the stitches that had reopened from shiv wounds across his chest and arms. He couldn't decide if he wanted somebody to come by and help him, or if he didn't want anyone to see him this indecent and pathetic. What did it matter, anyway? He didn't have any more choice in who would come down the hallway as he did with anything going on outside of the walls of the prison; which is to say, no choice at all.

Neal dragged himself within ten feet of the entrance to the infirmary, before he could not physically go any further. He lay on the ground, choking on his own blood, and wondered if anyone would find him before he became just another body in the morgue, another unwanted inmate casualty in the prison system.

He thought he saw footsteps approaching, but before he could tell for sure, he blacked out.

* * *

><p><em>(The prison statistic is completely made up.)<em>


	16. Chapter 16

It was very, very early in the morning when Wilkes finally showed up.

Peter had been in shock after seeing Neal at the prison, but came back to the van straight after, anyway. It was more important than ever to catch Wilkes, so that they could free Neal.

For that reason, at 4 in the morning, Peter was watching monitors that showed nothing, with a big cup of coffee in his hand. Jones and Diana were asleep as he had given them a chance to rest but they hadn't wanted to leave. Peter needed the time to think.

And what he couldn't stop thinking about was Neal. His mind kept hearing the words the doctor had said.

Neal had been beaten like that before. And it was Peter's fault.

Well, not exactly Peter's fault. He didn't throw the punches. He didn't even pick which prison Neal would have to serve his time in. But he put Neal in there, and that was enough to take at least some of the blame.

And now Neal was hurt again, because of him. First he'd saved Peter from being kidnapped, now he was beaten in prison, where Peter put him.

Peter never should've agreed to Neal's plan. He should've known it was too dangerous.

But because it was Neal, the plan was working. Wilkes showed up at the museum, and Peter watched as he and his three large henchmen picked the lock on one of the museum doors, disabled the alarms, and turned off the cameras, then made their way to the exhibit with the statue he was so determined to get their hands off. Peter was again grateful that he'd had the foresight to install some FBI cameras in the museum, which hadn't been turned off, as they fed directly to the surveillence van instead of to the museum's security system. He still had visual and audio on Wilkes, but the man thought he was in the clear.

Peter quickly woke up Diana and Jones, and then turned up the audio on the cameras they'd installed around "The Boy King."

Peter held his breath, waliting for the right moment to storm in. Diana called for back-up, and Jones readied his weapon.

They all listened to Wilkes.

"There it is," he said. "The Egyptians will love this, and it'll be simple to trade it for the diamond."

One of the men walked into the room, joining the other three. "It's done," he said.

"You turned off _all _the cameras, and deleted the footage of us coming in?" Wilkes asked.

"Yeah, boss, I got it," the man replied.

"Caffrey already screwed up and landed himself in prison. That's not happening again. I need this statue." Wilkes seemed pretty worked up, and he started cutting that wires that connected the glass enclosing to the pedestal the statue was resting upon. It was a new installment after the first attempted robbery, suggested by the FBI in order to make it more secure, but it didn't look like it was posing much of a challenge to get by.

He removed the glass covering, and then Wilkes was holding the statue.

Peter nodded at Jones and Diana, and they began to move. As one, the exited the van and descended on the museum, their weapons ready. Diana radioed some details for their back-up, and then they were inside, moving swiftly towards the exhibit.

"Freeze! FBI!" Jones screamed as the he burst in the room.

Unfortunately, Wilkes's team did not freeze.

All three henchmen drew their weapons, as did Wilkes, after he dropped the staute in a bag hanging from his shoulder.

"Burke. So nice to you to show up," Wilkes said.

"Drop your weapon, Wilkes," Peter demanded.

"No, I don't think I will. It's four against three. You like your odds, agent?"

Peter decided to get Wilkes talking, to stall until the back-up team got there. "What's so popular about that little statue, to have _two _thieves go after it in one week?"

Wilkes chuckled slightly. "Are you referring to Caffrey? Did he really not tell his favorite _handler _why he was trying to steal it? And here I thought you two were _friends._"

"What are you talking about, Wilkes?" Peter asked, trying to play dumb. _Please confess, please confess, please confess. _

"How did you find me?" Wilkes ased, his gun still pointed at Peter. "How did you know to come here, if Caffrey didn't tip you off?"

"Your initials were on the base of the fake statue. We only just found them, after it was placed in evidence. We sat on the museum, thinking maybe you were Caffrey's accomplice and you would come finish the job. When we saw the cameras go dark, we came in." Peter might not be as smooth as Neal, but he could still hold his own in the lie department when the time came.

Wilke laughed lightly under his breath. "Alright, agent, why don't I enlighten you to what's going on here. I might as well, seeing as none of you are going to make it out of here alive.

"_I _took Neal Caffrey, threatened him, then let him loose. It was under _my _orders that he stole the statue, although he couldn't even manage to do that right without screwing it up. And it's because of _me_ that's he's going to rot in jail for the rest of his life. And there's nothing _you _can do about it."

Wilkes cocked the gun smiling all too cheerfully, but before Peter could react, the door behind him slammed open and the room was full of shouts. "FBI! Drop you weapons, you are surrounded!"

Wilkes seemed like he wanted to fight for a moment, but he took in the massive number of agents surrounding him and decided that would be a bad idea. He and his cronies were handcuffed and led away.

Peter looked at the agents he trusted with his life. "All good?" he asked.

"Great," Diana said. "That'll be enough to get Caffrey off."

"Come on," Peter smiled. "Let's go get our favorite con back."


	17. Chapter 17

Neal woke up again on a hospital bed, but entirely without pain this time. In fact, he felt oddly detached from his body.

He looked around, and saw the doctor standing a bit away from him. "Doctor? Hello, doctor?" His words were drawn own, vowels hanging in the air for a bit too long.

The doctor stepped up to his bed, putting his clipboard down beside him. "Mr. Caffrey. How are you feeling?"

"I'm gooood, doc," Neal grinned up at him.

"I can see that," the doctor said, smiling slightly. "I've increased you pain medication again, which is probably why you're feeling so happy right now."

"Mm, happy." Neal nodded. "Yup."

The doctor turned around to leave when he saw someone. He turned back towards Neal. "Mr. Caffrey, it looks like you have a visitor."

Neal looked up, curious.

"Neal?"

"Peter!" Neal exclaimed, looking up at his friend.

"Neal, I have great news," Peter said, smiling widely. "We caught Wilkes! He came for the statue, just like you said he would, and we caught him with it. And we got him on tape, with a full confession, about the blackmail and everything!"

"I knew you could do it, buddy," Neal said, an impossibly wide smile on his face, but his eyes looked a little vacant.

"Uh, Neal, are you on pain medications?" Peter asked, confused about Neal's reaction to the news.

"Yup!" Neal said. "Lots of 'em."

"Right," Peter said, then his tone turned very serious. "Neal."

Neal looked somwhat started by the change in tone, and his own voice turned more serious, Peter's words penetrating through his drugged stupor. "Yes, Peter?"

"Who did this to you, Neal?"

"Peter, you know I can't tell you that."

"Neal," Peter insisted, "tell me, so they can be punished for what they did to you."

But Neal just shook his head. Even without Walker's warning, and drugged or not, Neal knew he couldn't tell Peter. Prison wasn't like real life; there was a code, and anyone who broke it would face a harsh punishment, no matter the reason.

"Neal, you're being released. You don't have to worry about retaliation or anything, you'll be on the outside."

Neal looked at Peter with wide eyes. "And when I'm back again? What about then?"

"You won't be-"

"Can you say that for sure?" Neal interrupted. "What if Wilkes comes back again? Or if I'm framed? Don't say these are out of the realm of possiblilities, Peter, because they've both happened to me before."

Neal saw Peter look down at his hands, and wanted to say something else. He heard Peter start to talk, but he couldn't focus on the words. His eyes rolled back into his head, and his body jerked a few times before going limp.


	18. Chapter 18

Peter looked down at his hands. He wanted to apologize to Neal for all the times he'd put him in harm's way, and for failing again and again at protecting him. "Neal, I-"

All of a sudden, the monitors around Neal started beeping out of control, and Peter saw his eyes roll into his head and his body begin to jerk, before going completely still.

"Neal!"

The doctor rushed over, looking at the monitors. He pulled up Neal's shirt and ripped off the bandages, and Peter saw all the bruises covering Neal's abdomen. It hardly looked human.

"His abdomen is distended, he needs a hospital," the doctor said. "Call an ambulance!"

Out of nowhere, two guards rushed forward. One was on his radio, calling for an ambulance. The other helped the doctor push his bed towards the back exit and then swiped his card and punched in a code to get them out, where the ambulance would meet them.

"What's going on?" asked Peter, trailing behind. "Why does he need to go to a hospital? Why can't you help him here, now?"

The doctor turned quickly to adress Peter. "He needs surgery, which we cannot do here."

"Surgery!" Peter cried, dismayed. "What for?"

"Internal bleeding," the doctor said grimly, and turned back around to brief the paramedics who had just arrived.

Peter watched as Neal was transferred onto a stretcher. One of the guards stepped forward, and cuffed Neal's wrist to the side of the stretcher. Then he was loaded into the ambulance. The harsh click of the metal locking around Neal's unconscious body jolted Peter into action.

"I'm going with him!" he demanded, before the parametics could shut the doors.

"Sir-"

"I'm his partner, his friend, and an agent of the FBI. You'll need me to authorize the removal of the handcuffs for surgery, anyway." Peter had a look on his face that the paramedic wisely decided not to argue with, and he was let inside the ambulance.

He had barely taken a seat on the side when they took off, lights flashing and sirens wailing. The inside was no less chaotic. The paramedics put an oxygen mask over Neal's face, before cutting off the orange shirt to get a better look at his injuries. Even Peter, with his utter lack of medical experience, could tell there was something seriously wrong. His abdomen was extended, and rigid. Not to mention it was all a dark purple color, punctuated with dots of blacks and blues in the shape of fists.

Peter looked away, unable to face his friend's damaged body. He looked at Neal's face, instead. His eyes were closed, and there was a dark bruise on his cheek. But every other second the oxygen mask would fog up slightly, and Peter was comforted by the fact that Neal was still breathing.

The paramedics kept bustling around, hooking him up to machines around the vehicle. If Peter hadn't been so worried about his partner, he'd marvel at the organized chaos of it all, not so unlike a team going in for a sting. All individual people with individual jobs, coming together to create a net in which to trap the bad guy. Only in the ambulance, the net was a safety net for Neal, trying to keep him alive if he fell off the thin tightrope on which his life was balancing.

Peter put his head in his hands, drained from the long night, the excitement of catching Wilkes, and the fear over Neal's state. The driver called out that they were four minutes away from the hospital, but Peter wasn't listening. He kept hearing Neal's voice in his head.

_Neal, what if I can't get you out? Or what if I'm too late?_

_You won't be, Peter. I trust you. _

And from earlier, the words in the clinic that refused to leave his head:

_Out of all the people in my life, you're the only one. _

_The only one what?_

_The only person in my life I trust. _

A loud beeping sound interrupted Peter's thoughts.

"He's crashing!" yelled one paramedic.

"Grab the paddles, charge to 200," called the other one.

One of them grabbed the paddles, put them against Neal's chest, and yelled, "Clear!"

Peter watched, horrified, as Neal's body jerked upsards, then lay still again.

"Flatline!" called the paramedic.

"No!" Peter heard someone screaming, and thought it might be him, but he didn't care.

"Charge to 300!"

They put the paddles back on his chest, and once again Peter watched as Neal's entire body jolted from the electric charge.

"Neal-" It was just a whisper this time, almost inaudible, as Peter couldn't breathe, couldn't fill his lungs with the air he needed, because his partner was _dying. _Neal was dying.

Neal was dead.

The paramedics glanced at each other, a slight glance that Peter wouldn't normally miss, but he did, because his eyes were glued to Neal's face.

Neal's face, perfectly still, no bright smile, no glint of blue through his closed eyes, his complexion so pale, so white.

"No." Peter's voice was low and gutteral, but this time the entire ambulance heard it. "Please, Neal, please." He was begging, his voice breaking, but he didn't care, he couldn't tear his eyes away from Neal's still face.

The driver called out one minute until they arrived at the hospital, and the paramedics gave each other another look, but again Peter missed it.

He was watching Neal, watching as his body was jolted up in the air a third time, watched as the oxygen mask fogged up.

_The oxygen mask fogged up. _Neal was breathing!

Peter vaguely heard the paramedics call, "He's back!" But it felt like it was coming through a tunnel, because all of his attention was on Neal.

On Neal breathing.

Peter stuck out his hand, and gently brushed the back of Neal's hand, longing for physical contact.

But just as soon as he touched him, the ambulance stopped and the back door was opened. Neal was pulled out of the ambulance, with words like "internal bleeding" and "crashed en route" following him. Peter saw his friend disappear behind ER doors, and couldn't help but wonder what state he'd be in when he'll see him again.


	19. Chapter 19

He crashed twice more, the doctors said. Once in the hospital, once on the table. Twice, they said, oxygen stopped reaching his brain.

But the surgery was successful. The medically-induced coma was to give his body the time it needed to heal.

Until he woke up, they wouldn't know what state he'd be in. Whether he'd suffered any brain damage.

That's what the doctors said.

But Neal hadn't woken up. Not after an hour or two. Not after a day or two. Not yet.

"He'll wake up when he's ready," the doctors told Peter. "He just needs more time," they kept saying.

But three days had gone by. What was stopping him? Why wasn't he ready?

They all visited. Peter, Elizabeth, June, even Mozzie braved his hospital fears to visit Neal. Jones and Diana showed up on occasion, as well. They talked to him, telling him they were there for him, begging him to wake up.

Four days.

One of the doctors warned them. He said sometimes a body just doesn't recover from surgery. Sometimes a patient just doesn't wake up. He told them to continue hoping for the best, but to start preparing for the worst.

They refused to believe it. Neal would come back. He had to.

When he wasn't at the hospital, Peter buried himself in work. He took charge on the case, and made sure both the Marshalls and the DOJ knew of Wilkes's blackmail and Neal's innocence. Wilkes was processed and put back in jail.

Neal was cleared. His arm was no longer cuffed to the hospital bed he lay in. Peter went personally to remove the cuffs. As he did so, he held his breath, hoping that Neal was waiting to wake up when he was treated as a free man, instead of an inmate. But he didn't wake up.

Peter couldn't stop thinking about the last thing Neal had said to him. Under _Peter's _watch, Neal had been framed, kidnapped, and beaten to a point that he was barely hanging on to life. Not to mention the numerous cases where he had guns pointed at him.

Peter couldn't protect him.

And he couldn't make him wake up.


	20. Chapter 20

It was the fifth day that he was unconscious. The doctors had already removed the ventillator and replaced it with a simple oxygen mask, and the bruises were starting to fade. The ones on his face were barely visible, although his chest was covered and black and blue, bandages and stitches.

But with his chest covered by a blanket, he just looked like he was peacefully sleeping. Peter could almost believe it was a con, that Neal would open his eyes in a second and laugh at him for falling for it.

But those brilliantly blue eyes didn't open.

Peter got up from the chair he'd inhabited next to Neal's bed on and off for the last couple days, stretching his legs and putting away the case files he'd been looking at. He decided to take a walk, get some coffee downstairs, but as he took one last look at Neal he thought he saw him shift his head slightly, and he abandoned all thoughts of coffee.

"Neal? Neal, can you hear me?"

This time Peter was sure Neal moved. His head tilted slightly to the side, towards Peter's voice, but that was all. No movement in the rest of his body.

"Neal, I want you to open your eyes. Can you do that for me, can you open your eyes?"

His eyelids parted for just a split second, showing a glimpse of blue irises before closing again.

"That's it Neal, come on."

Peter's encouragements were rewarded by two bright blue eyes staring up at him.

"Neal," Peter breathed, unsure of what to do and unwilling to do anything to disturb that beautiful moment.

Neal reached up towards the oxygen mask covering his mouth, wanting to take it off to speak. Peter reached forward to stop him, but not before Neal hand just bounced off of it. He tried again to grab it, but his hand didn't seem to want to open all the way to grab the mask, and he just bumped his face again. Peter grabbed Neal's hand before his could try a third time, laying it down by his side and squeezing it gently. But he didn't miss the dulled look of panic in Neal's eyes at his inability to remove the mask. The phrases "oxygen deprivation" and "brain damage" floated around in Peter's mind, but he pushed them away. "It's okay, Neal," he said. "Just wait until the doctors get here."

Peter reached out and pressed the call button next to Neal's bed, and within minutes doctors were swarming the room, running tests on Neal and adjusting medication levels and writing notes on clipboards. But Peter never let go of Neal's hand, and Neal's eyes hardly left Peter's face.

Finally the doctos quieted down, murmuring to each other about their patient's condition, until all but one left the room.

Peter turned and looked at the doctor, still holding Neal's hand. "Tell me good news."

The doctor glanced down at his notes briefly before speaking. "Mr. Caffrey is conscious and aware of his surroundings. His physical wounds are healing very well, and his incision shows no sign of infection."

Neal took his other hand and again tried to take off the oxygen mask. He grasped it slightly, but was unable to pull it off and his hand fell back down to the bed, his eyes gazing downwards in shame.

Peter reached over and gently pulled off the mask for Neal.

Neal looked up at the doctor, a mildly perturbed look on his face. "_Mr. Caffrey_ is right here," he said. His voice was soft and gravelly from lack of use, but no one cared as long as he was speaking. "And I _know _I'm awake and aware. What I want to know is what's wrong with my hands."

The doctor nodded. "It's possible that due to the lack of oxygen to your brain before and during surgery, you could be experiencing a disconnect from your brain to the small muscles in your fingers that control motor skills. But you're young and healthy, and your reflexes look fine, so I'm optimistic that with time and some therapy you'll regain full motion again."


	21. Chapter 21

Neal wasn't sure what was going on, or where he was. He could feel his body, and he tried to move, but he didn't think it was was working. He was surrounded in a thick, black darkness that seemed to press against him from all sides, while at the same time avoiding him entirely.

Then Neal heard a voice. He couldn't place it, but it sounded familiar, comforting. He moved towards the voice, wanting to tell it he was there, wanting it to help him escape the darkness.

The voice spoke again, and this time Neal heard some of what it was saying. "...open your eyes... for me... open."

Nela thought that sounded like a good idea, so he opened his eyes. A flash of light hit him so hard, he shut them again quickly.

The voice spoke again. "That's it Neal, come on."

The voice was so familiar, Neal thought. And then he realized who it was. _Peter. _Of course it was Peter.

So Neal tried again for Peter, forcing his eyes open. This time, the light settled into colors, and Neal was Peter looking down at him.

Neal looked up at Peter, and he knew he was okay. Even as a bolt of pain shot through his chest, he was able to ignore it, as he kept his eyes focused on Peter.

He wanted to say something, but found there was something in front of his mouth blocking the words from getting to Peter. He reached up to take off the mask in front of his mouth, but his fingers didn't seem to want to cooperate. His hand glanced off the mask. Frustrated, he tried again, but he couldn't get his fingers to open properly and grab the mask.

Peter reached up and took his hand, lowering it back down to the bed and holding it gently. His eyes showed worry, but his voice was smooth. "It's okay, Neal. Just wait until the doctors get here."

Neal didn't want to wait, but he didn't see another alternative at the moment. People in scrubs and lab coats came into the room, and they started checking monitors and prodding Neal and checking things like his stitches and his reflexes. Neal let them poke and move him around, and kept his eyes on Peter's face, letting Peter stabilize him.

Finally most of the doctors left, and there was just one remaining.

"Tell me good news," Peter said.

The doctor looked down at his clipboard. "Mr. Caffrey is conscious and aware of his surroundings. His physical wounds are healing very well, and his incision shows no sign of infection."

Neal tried to interrupt, annoyed that he was being spoken about as if he wasn't in the room, but then remembered the oxygen mask. He took his other hand, the one Peter wasn't holding, and tried to remove it. His fingers opened up slightly and he got a small grip on the mask before they slipped off, falling back to the bed. Neal looked down, ashamed.

He felt the mask being slipped off. Peter.

Neal looked back up at the doctor. "_Mr. Caffrey _is right here," he said, injecting as much sarcasm into his voice as he could. His words came out scratchy and low, but he ignored that for the moment. "And I _know _I'm awake and aware. What I want to know is what's wrong with my hands."

The doctor nodded. "It's possible that due to the lack of oxygen to your brain before and during surgery, you could be experiencing a disconnect from your brain to the small muscles in your fingers that control motor skills. But you're young, and your reflexes look fine, so I'm optimistic that with time and some therapy you'll regain full motion again." Then he left the room, leaving Neal and Peter alone.

"Optimistic?" Neal said, looking down at his hands. "Peter-"

"Neal, relax," Peter said. "You're awake, you're okay. So it might take some time to get your hands back to normal, but you're alive. That's all that matters."

Neal looked up, his eyes bright and wide. "Peter, my hands are my life. If I can't paint, if I can't-" He broke off, and Peter could almost see his mask forming again, locking his emotions in and everyone else out. Neal started again. "Lack of oxygen to the brain. How did that happen?" His tone was lighter, light enough to be talking about the weather, not about his own near-death experience.

Peter cleared his throat, and shifted in his seat before meeting Neal's eyes. "You, um, crashed. In the ambulance, and in the hospital. You stopped breathing, your heart stopped. They were able to revive you, but it took some time."

"Wow," Neal said, and again he spoke only with a mild curiousity, as if it happened to a stranger. "How long was I out?"

"Five days," Peter said.

Neal gave a low whistle, accompanied with a soft smile.

There was silence for a moment, and then Peter spoke. "Neal, I am _so _sorry."

"Sorry?" Neal asked. "For what?"

"For- for all this," Peter said, hands flailing around the room in general.

Neal wasn't sure what he meant, so he stated something that was bothering him. "I don't remember how I got here. You said something about an ambulance? The last thing I remember was trying to get to the prison infirmary."

Peter swallowed. "Well, you must've gotten there, because that's where I saw you. I went to visit you, but while I was there you- you... uh, you passed out. They called an ambulance and took you here, and then rushed you into surgery."

Peter's face had gone white, and Neal wondered what it must've been like to see him like that. Suddenly remembering why everything started, he asked, "What ever happened with Wilkes? Did you catch him? I assume you did, as I'm not cuffed to the bed right now."

For some reason, that made Peter more uncomfortable. "Yeah, we got him. Confessed to blackmailing you, which cleared you."

Neal smiled, not with his I'm-conning-you megawatt smile, but the honest one that Peter first saw after they broke their first case together. "Thank you, Peter."

Peter shook his head. "You shouldn't be thanking me for anything. You took a beating for me from Wilkes, then I put you in jail and you got beat up _again_. Neal, you could have died."

"But I'm fine," Neal protested. "And you got Wilkes. What else matters?"

"The men at the prison, Neal. They matter. You're out now, you're free. They can't hurt you. Tell me who they are, they should be punished for what they did to you."

Neal shook his head. "I get the feeling we've had this conversation before."

Peter looked down at his hands for a moment. "Yeah, but you were on lots of pain killers." He looked up, and made eye contact with Neal so strongly that Neal almost flinched. "Tell me, Neal. You deserve justice for that."

Neal shook his head. "Justice doesn't live in the prison system, Peter, as ironic as that sounds. My answer hasn't changed. You got Wilkes, now let it go."

Neal could tell Peter didn't want to, but he let it drop.


	22. Chapter 22

Over the next week, Peter watched as Neal struggled, but improved quickly. He spent most of his time squeezing stress balls, trying to get his brain to start communicating with his hands properly again. He would get frustrated easily, but wouldn't give up. A couple days after he woke up, Peter walked in to his room with a cup of coffee to find Neal throwing the stress ball up and catching it, just like he did so often with the rubber band ball at Peter's office. The smile across his face was enormous, and Peter knew he'd never reprimand him for throwing around that ball again.

Neal quickly moved on to sketching, and his fine motor skills rapidly increased. Before the close of the week he was back to sketching as effortlessly as before the whole ordeal. The therapist gave him the okay to end his sessions, saying he was a quick learner and one of her best patients. Peter thought it didn't hurt that she was a younger therapist, and that Neal kept running his fingers through his hair and throwing her his magnificent smiles.

Along with the therapist, the doctor also gave him a clean bill of health a week after he awoke. The incision was healed nicely, and Neal was told to keep his physical activity light for the next few weeks, but that he was good to go.

Peter wanted to take him to his house to recuperate, but Neal insisted that he be in his own place, to feel a sense of normalcy that he hadn't experienced in a while, what with prison time and hospital time. Peter agreed, with the condition that Neal spent most of the day with Peter or someone Peter trusted to look after him. Neal just smiled, letting Peter look after him to try to assuage his guilty conscience for letting him get hurt in the first place.

Two days after Neal was released from the hospital, Peter and Neal were sitting in Neal's apartment, each sipping their alcohol of choice.

There was a moment of silence between the two, and the apartment was filled with noise from the New York City streets that neither man really noticed. The quiet stretched on until Peter broke it.

"Neal. I don't think I ever thanked you."

"Thanked _me_?" Neal questioned. "What for?"

"These past few weeks, the whole thing with Wilkes and then going back to jail, you did it all to save me. So thank you."

"Thank _you_, Peter," Neal responded. "You got Wilkes, you got me out of prison... again."

Peter shook his head, knowing he had only been making things right by doing all that. _He _hadn't sacrificed anything.

"Peter." Neal spoke softly, and Peter brought his gaze up to meet Neal's intense blue eyes. "You would have done the same for me."

THE END

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><p><em>Thank you all so much for reading my story. It's been a long one, and I appreciate all of you who've stuck with it this whole time. Thank you for the encouraging reviews as well. You guys are the best, and you inspire me to keep writing. So thanks for all that you've done... this story was for you. <em>

_-E4flying_


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